How Many More Times
by triquetral
Summary: Pain and pop culture aplenty. Early season 1. sick/hurtin!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: To any folks following the HP story I had started last year and still haven't finished, real world stuff happened where I just couldn't put myself into the subject matter. I hope to be able to tackle it again soon.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of our heroic siblings with sawed-offs. **

**No beta. I claim all lame errors as my own.**

**Thank you for any reviews!  
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* * *

His little clusterfucks. It was the obvious name for them after all, appropriate – as they did fuck with everything.

There was another name for them – suicide headaches, and that one he didn't make up. The doctor had been _kind _enough_ to_ inform him about that particular eponym. The doctor Dean had only seen after his dad had made him go, after three consecutive nights of come-and-go lightning bolt misery that had forced them to back off of a hunt and into the ER. John had tried to make it seem like that was the main reason they were seeking out a specialist – that Dean was screwing up the hunt, but Dean knew better. John had been worried – worried enough to be searching the room for hex bags, not fully convinced that this was a medical problem. Hell, Dean was worried – it was his head that was set to explode at least once a day.

Explode it did – day after day after day. Pain that made him writhe and scream and sob, beyond broken bones, beyond the kidney stones that he'd had once. There was no warning, other than being aware of the time of the clock. That was another name the doctor had mentioned, alarm clock headaches. And, true to form, nearly at the same time for a whole month a rusty icepick would hit him in the right eye, chipping away at his brain and his dignity, bringing him to his knees – literally. The good news about the train-schedule-like timing of the pain was that he and his dad were still able to hunt; they just scheduled interviews and ghost-killing around it. It meant a lot of 5am grave digging, but this was the early winter so it was mostly dark at that hour anyway.

And then one day it stopped. John had busted his ass to get them into a motel on time. They were both at the ready with Imitrex injector and handful of Dilaudid in hand and nothing happened. It was a relief to both of them, to be sure, but it made them both nervous. Not knowing when it was going to happen was almost worse, somehow. The wrath of Thor's hammer could crush Dean's skull at any moment. "On edge" was not a strong enough phrase.

But - the pain continued to stay away.

It took a week and a half before Dean dared utter the phrase, "Maybe they're gone."

It was John's hope,too. Still – always one to bring down the room, he felt the need to advise against such optimism. "You heard what the doc said, kid, they can go away and come back."

It took a month of clear sailing before John felt comfortable enough for them to take separate hunts, and still another two months of further painlessness before they hunted in places that were more than a day's ride from each other.

And so it went. Enough time passed that Dean got used to his own skin again, didn't worry nearly so much about having his medication in his pocket _all-the-time_, didn't freak the fuck out when the clock hit 9pm.

Spring, summer, fall again. Then dad went missing. Then Dean went and picked up Sam. Then he and his pain in the ass little brother dispatched a Bitch in Blanca and a wendigo. In the middle of all that Sam lost the love of his life, and whatever time Dean had leftover from worrying about his father was spent worrying about Sam. Worrying about Sam, caring for Sam, it was like muscle memory. A little rusty from disuse, but the switch was fully flipped now that his brother was in front of him, eyes shadowed, barely eating, hardly sleeping. Out in the miserable woods of Blackwater Ridge, Dean told Sam to let go of the whole powder-keg image that he'd suddenly been cultivating, and Sam had calmed down some. That was good, because as much as Dean idolized his father, the last thing he wanted was for his geek little brother to turn into him. He'd spent his youth watching his dad compound his grief-laden rage into TNT, an explosive with one target – the creature that killed Mary Winchester. The problem with explosives is that there is nearly always collateral damage and that includes the person setting off the charge. Dean couldn't change his dad, but he sure as hell was going to make sure his brother didn't go down the same mine-field of a path. Dean really shouldn't have worried so much, for now it turned out the only bomb ticking away was the one in his head.

The first time happened in the car of all fucking places. Sam was asleep against the window, drooling on himself while the night sky flickered past. Dean was the most relaxed he'd been in ages, driving his sweet, sweet ride with his kid brother finally back where he belonged. _So, this is what contentment feels like_, Dean thought, swiftly making a vow to never utter that sentence aloud.

The pain came just as swiftly, sudden and fierce – a barbed arrow to the eyeball so that he could barely see, wetness pouring down his cheek from that one eye, snot from that one nostril. Dean stifled a cry and the road swerved in front of him. He felt the thud-thud-thud as the car's wheels hit the gravel on the shoulder, an odd syncopation with the rhythm in his brain. Sam woke up startled and Dean felt his younger brother's ginormous hand grab him at the elbow.

"Dean, what the hell?!"

Dean pulled some masterful corrective driving shit out of his ass and managed to get them off of the road. A loud creak echoed off the trees in the distance, emphasizing that they were in the middle of nowhere. The chill night air felt at once fantastic and dreadful on his skin, the entire right side of his face feeling like a giant frayed nerve, so that any sensation, even the tears wending their way down his face, sparked blasts of pain.

"Gotta take a leak," said Dean, his voice trembling slightly as the sensation of someone being in a knife fight with his eyeball increased. The image came to his mind that his eye was going to shoot out of his head. Frankly, if it meant it would stop hurting – he would gladly start donning an eyepatch. He turned the key off in the ignition and used whatever strength he had in him to get himself into a standing position outside the car, but not before snagging his jacket from the backseat. He couldn't see the stark incredulity that was his brother's face and he really didn't want to. All he could focus on was getting away from Sam, his fingers pawing across the medication in his jacket pocket – their mere presence offering him comfort.

He concentrated on keeping himself upright on the uneven terrain as he got himself far enough away from the car. Stupid. He'd been stupid and he knew it, not telling Sam, not expecting this to happen. Like any lie or sin of omission, though, it had gone on too long to feel like he could just come clean. Or maybe that was an excuse, maybe – probably – he just didn't want to tell Sam. It had been hard enough letting his Dad look after him.

Let.

As if that had been the case. As if there was even a choice.

As if once the pain kicked in good and proper, Dean was anything other than a sniveling twisted soul praying for death. And he had said those prayers – aloud, the Tourette's of the insanely ill, begging God or any nearby person to end the pain by any means necessary. The first time those words had left his mouth, his dad had barely been able to look him in the eye the next day. Dean had feared it was because he had shown true weakness, which was why _he_ was afraid to meet his dad's eyes. There was something about the sag in John's shoulders, though… it just kept nagging at Dean. Neither of them brought it up. They had spent an uncharacteristic day kicking around the same motel room, even had a pizza delivered. As the clock had ticked on closer to the accursed hour, John began to pace frantically. Dean tried to focus on watching _Cannonball Run_, but his eyes kept flicking over to the check the time, his mind going in a thousand places with the anticipation. Then John had decided to talk, which was completely not the normal suck-it-up code of ethics Dean was used to.

"Did you mean it?" John had asked quietly.

Dean had blinked, his mind struggling to focus on what his dad might mean, not even sure if he had been ignoring a conversation his dad might have been trying to have with him. "Mean?"

"What you said….about wanting to die?"

And John had looked at Dean in a way that froze his heart in its tracks; his father looked terrified.

And what could Dean say?

"Dad, you can't take that seriously…at the time my brain is pretty much on fire. The rantings of the unwell." Dean had tried to joke, but his dad had given him the look, the fatherly look that said _who-do-you-think-taught-you-how-to-bullshit_.

In the end, Dean had told his dad the truth. "Look, I probably meant it at the time, but we both know I'm going to come out the other side and be fine. A couple of hours and the right meds and it is like it never happened. "

Except that it did happen, over and over again. They both knew that.

"I just…," John had started, his words faltering. "You can't check out on me, kid. I couldn't…"

And suddenly Dean had understood. He'd understood why John wouldn't leave him alone in the room that day.

"Dad, I'm far too stubborn to go gently into the friggin' night." Dean had a crooked smile ready when John had looked up sharply, searching Dean's face for signs of more bullshit, and then nodding as if he found an answer he could live with. Reassuring his family was what Dean was good at, and it had still taken days before that haunted look had left John.

Now he was faced with his kid brother hearing the same god-awful pleas. And it was too late now to ease Sam into it, to prepare him. No matter what Dean wanted or needed, no matter how Dean wanted to provide for Sam's wants and needs, pain quickly became the priority as it lanced through him like splinters of bamboo being shoved into his optic nerve. He found a tree to lean up against as a shaking, fumbling hand sought out the comfort of medication. It took him nearly five minutes just to load the injector with the medication – and the friggin' thing was geared to be idiot-proof. His eyes were blurred with tears as he hurriedly shrugged a shoulder out of his flannel and pressed the gray plastic tube firmly against his arm. A click and a prick, he felt the loaded coil stab the medication into him. Within minutes he felt the familiar ache descend, the skin in his forehead feeling tighter. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, sometimes it worked just enough that he could pretend it was a concussion he was dealing with.

This time it worked just enough.

Dean stumbled back to the car, feeling lightheaded from the medication, still clutching the Dilaudid in his sweaty hands, not wanting to take it and go off to La La Land when Sam didn't even know what the hell was going on. Sam was standing outside the car, crossing his arms, brow furrowed.

"That was some leak, man." Sam laid out the sentence, waiting for the response that could start the conversation about what had happened.

"What can I say?" Dean shrugged, trying to quirk a smile, trying to ignore the _pound-pound-pound_ that was still in his head. He tried to keep to the shadows as he made his way closer to the Impala. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."

"Try again, man. I can see you're in pain, I saw fucking _tears_." And there was the Sammy bitchface he was used to: pissy demeanor, excessively flared nostrils, pursed lips.

"I got something in my eye." Dean lied automatically, which was pointless he realized – when he needed to tell Sam what was going on. "Look, Sam…can we….can we just go to a motel? We'll talk about this, I promise, but I just…I need to lay down." To emphasize the point, Dean pulled out the keys and held them out for Sam.

Whatever plan Sam might have had to force Dean to explain himself immediately was drowned out by fierce concern. Sam reached out hesitantly and claimed the keys. "Sure, man. No problem."

Dean's body sagged in relief and he trudged – yes, Dean Winchester _trudged_ – over to the passenger side of the Impala. When he opened the door the interior lights zapped his pain up a few notches and he had to fight himself to yell at Sam to just get in the car so it would be dark (blessedlyblessedlydark). His brother just kept looking at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly biting his tongue and trying to lay off. For the moment.

* * *

They pulled into a motel a half an hour later. Dean was pointing his face toward the window as much as possible to hide the stream of tears that kept pouring out of his right eye. He felt like Two-Face, and Dean hated Two-Face. As if Batman couldn't take on someone who was basically a case study for a psychology grad thesis, the DC Comics version of Sybil. Hardly a challenging villain.

Dean had leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. Before he knew it Sam was tapping on his window, frowning at the wetness he spied on Dean's face, or at least that's what Dean assumed Sam was making faces at. Jesus, he really hoped Sam didn't want to hug him.

"We're in 2. You need help?"

"Naw, I got it." There was no mistaking the firm edge in Dean's voice.

"Okay, I'll get the bags." Which is exactly what Sam busied himself doing, all the while flicking glances over toward Dean as he slowly urged his limbs out of the car. Dean stood, and there was vertigo, but manageable enough that he only made a slight zig-zag pattern on his way to the door. Sam had the foresight to unlock it, so Dean just went into the welcoming darkness, away from the neon signs on the exterior of the building, and launched himself face down on the first bed.

He heard Sam scrambling back and forth, the clink of steel weapons, the shaking of salt. Eventually all the sounds came to a halt and he heard the bed across the way creak as his little brother settled his weight on it.

"I know you're awake, Dean."

"Yeah, and?" came Dean's muffled reply, more directed at the blankets he was laying on than Sam.

He heard the bed creak again as Sam stood up, and he felt his brother's ginormous hands pulling at his head so he had to face him.

"Dude, stop groping me! What?" Dean squinted against the light Sam had left on while he was squaring their things away.

"Dean, please. You look like you're having a stroke, your eye is all messed up, droopy. Talk to me, because I'm about ready to call 911 on your ass."

Ah. Dean hadn't even thought of the drooping eye. No wonder Sam was wearing that panicked expression.

"It's headaches, dude. That's it. No stroke, so wipe that Miss Muffet look off your face."

"A headache." Sam said doubtfully. "This isn't just a run-of-the-mill headache. You're getting migraines?" Their dad had gotten two kinds of headaches – migraines and hangovers. The hangovers had been _much_ easier to deal with.

"Er, no. Different kind." Even talking about it was making it worse. "Look, it's called a Cluster Headache, go do your geek thing and google the shit out of it. But for the love of god, Sammy, turn off the light and let me try and sleep. _Please_."

"Okay, I will." Dean heard Sam say quietly, and he heard the immediate shuffle as his brother hurried to flick the light off.

This shuffling returned to the bedside and the quiet voice continued. "You need a bucket or anything, these things make you throw up?"

"Not usually." As soon as the words left Dean's mouth, Sam made sure the garbage can was right next to Dean's bed. For someone who had never been in the boy scouts, the kid sure loved being prepared.

"You have any meds you take?"

"Yeah, in my pocket."

"The pocket of the jacket you're still wearing."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"Well, can we take it off you, man?"

"No, Sam…_we_ can't, I can." Dean would have rolled his eyes if he didn't think it would probably end his life. Still, he managed to get himself in a sitting position, his head feeling like a lead weight and drooping forward. Sitting across from him, Sam had paled several shades after getting a full look at his brother's face, the drooping eyelid with tears dripping off like a permanently leaky faucet and clear mucus pouring out of his right nostril, the strange difference between that and the left side, which aside from mirroring the pain looked normal.

"Jesus, Dean….Two-Face."

"That's what I said." Dean wiped his already wet sleeve across his face. "Couldn't have been the Joker or some shit, right?"

"It isn't a joke, Dean."

Dean ignored Sam's seriousness, which he knew was going to get worse once the kid did his research. Dean also knew that the only reason Sam wasn't hitting him with a deluge of questions at the moment was because he was only a few keystrokes away to reading whatever the _Journal of the American Medical Association_ had to say. He reached into his pockets and pulled out the gray case and injector.

"I took this already. I can take it again in an hour and a half or so." The intensity of the pain was already inching up, shooting through his eye, crawling in his jaw as if someone were pounding a chisel at each tooth. Dean scrunched up his face for a minute, his breathing becoming more rapid. He felt Sam's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, stay with me. One more question. You have any pain meds?"

Unthinking, Dean just held out his hand that still had the pills stuck in them, the yellow-dye on the outside of the pill staining his hand.

"What are they?"

Dean looked at Sam blankly for a minute before producing the actual pharmacy bottle from his pocket.

"Jesus, Dean! Dilaudid? Strong stuff!" Sam caught Dean's wince as he raised his voice and returned it with a wince of his own. "Sorry, man."

There was a beat of quiet. "Why don't you take the pain meds now?"

"Save 'em til it gets bad." Dean muttered, flopping back down on his stomach. It was the Winchester way regarding any medication – you save it until you absolutely _need_ it.

The question was hanging in the air, unasked. How much worse was it going to get for Dean to need to take the stupidly strong pain meds? They were meds that they were never prescribed for knife wounds, broken bones, concussions and all the other assaults on the body that the hunt caused. Sam had only ever seen it given through IVs.

"I'll be right here, Dean." Dean heard Sam settle on the bed, the sound of the laptop turning on.

"I _know_."


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, Sam was sitting impatiently, waiting for Dean to wake up, which Dean sensed as he lay there, still on his stomach. The pain was gone (), but his body was awash in the exhausted aftermath. He forgot himself for a minute and groaned as he stretched.

"Dean, you okay? You awake?" Sam practically pounced.

"M'fine, Sam. Better." Dean turned his head to look at Sam, staying flat on the mattress.

"So…how long has this been going on?" Sam's voice was tentative, the way it always was when he posed questions about things that had happened while he was in college.

Dean yawned. "Last year…for about a month. Hasn't happened since."

"Was dad with you?" Sam's eyes darted toward the floorboards, as if he wasn't sure he should be asking, as if he wasn't sure he'd like the answer he was going to get – no matter what the answer was.

"Yeah, he was. Stuck to me like glue, too." Dean couldn't help feeling like he was trying to prove a point to Sam. That their dad cared.

"Why didn't you tell me, call me? I mean, you stopped hunting for-"

"We didn't stop hunting, Sam." Dean interrupted. "We just adjusted. And if this is the start…" God, he didn't even want to think about that. "_We_ aren't stopping hunting, either. I need you with me on this. We can't stop looking for dad."

Sam stayed silent, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

"Look, Sam…I…you….," Dean took a deep breath and finally sat up fully. "Last night is probably as easy as it is gonna get. It gets…bad."

"I read some accounts. Still doesn't really prepare me, though." Sam paused for a moment and then huffed a laugh.

"What?"

"Well, not really that funny, but the one person who'd be able to help me out, give me pointers, is dad. Can't exactly get ahold of him, though." Sam quirked a rueful smile which Dean returned.

Sam grinned a bit wider. "The worst pain in human perception, huh? I guess I can't complain about _anything_ anymore."

Dean chuckled softly. "Yeah, I would've gone for second worst, but no bragging rights."

"So, how we gonna deal with tomorrow?" Sam asked, his tone a bit more serious. "You want to stay here, see what happens, if this is another cluster cycle?"

"Honestly?" Dean scrunched up his nose. "I'd rather not. If I sit around this dump all day thinking what if…"

"Yeah," Sam nodded "I get it. So, we'll stay tonight, map out a route that'll give us plenty of time to hit a motel before it hits? What time was it…2200 hours?"

"Thereabouts." Dean said lightly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Maybe it was fluke. They stayed away for a whole year."

"True." Sam said slowly. "But from what I was reading, changes in season can trigger the cycle. Was it the end of fall last time, too?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?!" Sam's eyebrows raised enough that they were completely obscured by his hair. "You're telling me you don't remember the time you first began to have fireworks explode in your head?"

"'Course, I remember, Sam!" Dean snapped. "Can you understand how maybe I don't want to think about it starting all over again?" Dean stood up and began pacing angrily back and forth. "I mean, I felt like I just got my life back!" He caught Sam's deer-in-the-headlights look at Dean's sudden burst of anger and sat himself back down again and calmed his voice. "I'm sorry. It sounds horribly cliché, but you wouldn't understand." Dean even winced as he said it. Hell, he hadn't even heard Sam say the classic teen sulking "You wouldn't understand" line since the kid was sixteen.

Sam leaned forward towards Dean, resting his hands on his elbows. "So, explain it to me then."

Dean let out a long drawn out sigh, but he knew that this was part and parcel of having to tell Sam – the part where they talked about the feelings and had a drum circle or a circle jerk or whatever the hell. He rubbed a hand down his lower face, the day's worth of stubble scratching audibly against his calluses. "Our whole lives, we drive where we want, we hunt what comes along. We drive across five states without sleep if we have to. _Nothing_ stops us. Then this comes – and suddenly my brain imposes a friggin' curfew on me. And believe me, there's no sneaking in the window five minutes late, Sammy. There's no begging to stay out for one night only because Metallica is playing at the Garden. So, tell me, what happens to the people who are getting attacked between nine and midnight or whenever? Tough luck, ma'am, sorry, tell the angry spirit to re-schedule?"

"Well, what did you guys do when that came up before?"

"Dad went on his own."

"So, I could -" Before Sam could even finish the sentence, Dean cut him _right_ off.

"- Sam, no offense, you aren't dad. Hell, neither am I. We don't have his experience, his knowledge. And you've never gone without someone to back you up before. Besides, dad earned a couple of broken fingers out of the deal himself."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, c'mon, we get beat to shit all the time. You don't know that you being there would have prevented it."

Dean chose to ignore the logic. "It's more than just that. I'm supposed to be there to back up dad. I'm supposed to be there to watch _your_ back. That's just how things are. If I can't do that…" _Then what am I good for?_

"If you can't do that…then what?" Sam prompted, eager for Dean to finish the thought.

"Then not much use keeping me around, huh?" A maudlin smile played around Dean's lips for a moment.

Sam's jaw dropped while Dean continued. "For all we know, maybe Dad paired up with another hunter. He always thought the headaches would come back. Maybe he found someone he wouldn't have to take care of."

"Are you even fucking listening to yourself?!" There was anger in Sam's voice and he didn't know quite who or what it was for. "Dad pair up with someone….as if you didn't call Caleb and Pastor Jim the moment dad was gone, as if there is anyone he's on speaking terms with right now that'd he trust enough." Sam wouldn't go any further with that train of thought, and Dean didn't really expect or want him to. He knew what kind of parent Sam thought their father was, he knew Sam probably thought it _was_ possible their dad ditched him on purpose. Sam wasn't finished with either his frustration or his argument, however.

"Shit, Dean, no use keeping you around?! You're not just a hunter to me, you're my _brother_. You think the moment you get sick or hurt I'm going to shoot you like a lame horse? Ditch you? Head back to my burned out apartment? I know we barely talked for a couple of years, but give me some friggin' credit!"

Dean had the good grace to look genuinely sorry, which could be because he was. Sam sighed, feeling a stab of guilt for snapping. "Look, man, it's how you feel. I'm not trying to tell you that your feelings are wrong….except that, they sorta are, so maybe I am. But still, sorry…"

"S'okay." Dean shrugged. "We should get going to bed soon if we're going to be on the road tomorrow."

Sam nodded, glad that the conversation was over, maybe glad that he was still under Dean's umbrella of endless forgiveness. "I'm gonna stay up for a little bit, map a route." The younger brother settled himself against the headboard, pulling the laptop back onto his legs, stretching the full length of his legs down the bed, his toes shooting over the end.

"You gonna watch the TV, Gigantor?" Dean asked.

"No. Why, too much noise? I can go to the lobby with the laptop if it is gonna bug you." Sam stopped what he was doing and held the screen of the computer in his hands, ready to close down the laptop on his brother's say-so.

"Sam, I told you, my head is fine right now. You walking on eggshells, _that's_ gonna bug me. Anyway, I just figured maybe I'd stay up for a little while longer, see if something good is on."

"Oh. If we have that tri-state station as one of the channels there's a _Twilight Zone_ block on right now." Sam tossed the remote over onto Dean's bed, his long fingers immediately returning to the keyboard.

"Dude! You let me sit here talking feelings when Rod Serling is talking dimensions of sight, sound, and mind?" Dean curled his lips inward, doing his best vocal imitation of the television narrator.

"That was more Don Adams than Rod Serling," Sam snarked, not even looking up from the map that was currently showing on his screen.

"Eh, close enough." Dean shrugged, flicking through the channels until the old black 'n' white show popped on the air. "Shatner! Nice!"

Sam raised his eyes in interest. "This the one with the creature on the plane?"

"Exactly, Sammy. _Nightmare at 20,000 Feet_. Super-creepy-episode." Dean wasn't about to say that it was more the plane than the creature he had an issue with.

"Do you think the storytellers were going for some kind of gremlin mythology?" Sam pondered aloud.

"Clearly. And, Sam, the old rules still stand – you don't get to ruin the Zone for me with shop-talk until the episode is all the way over."

Sam snickered. "Sorry. It's been awhile since we've watched it together."

_Too long, man._ Dean thought.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning the brothers headed out early to give themselves plenty of time. Sam had plotted out a route heading back east. It was a normal day on the road for the most part – lead foot and loud music, the occasional breaks for food. The only indication that there was anything potentially wrong with this day was the silence that seemed to creep in as time bore down. Dean became increasingly silent, not even singing along to his favorite tunes. Sam didn't try and draw him out, the anticipation wearing on him as well.

Evening descended and they were outside of Jackson, Tennessee. The area had enough motels that they could afford to be more picky than usual. Some charm and credit card fraud found them safely housed in the nicest suite the Travel Star Motel had available. Dean was surprised, because it was Sam who insisted on doing the charming to get the better lodging. Although he shouldn't have been _that_ surprised, their dad had done the same thing, trying to make Dean as comfortable as possible. Dean didn't have the heart to tell either of them that it didn't really matter where he was when it happened, he'd take _any_ dark room.

They went out to a dive bar for dinner, although Sam refused to let Dean have more than one drink on the chance it was going to get mixed with pain meds later. This left Sam to play the part of the drunk gambler, so they could score some cash hustling pool. As Dean and the Mel Gibson version of William Wallace said, "Do it and let the English see you do it." Because when your marks could see you polish off a few rounds it made the whole thing believable. They didn't need to drink enough to blot out consciousness, just make sure each drink they did imbibe was seen by all. Sam managed to score several hundred dollars off a group of co-eds before he noticed it was 9:30. He also managed to get a decent buzz going. Sam shot Dean a look from across the bar which Dean returned with a slight nod, knowing his cue.

Dean burst through a couple of crowds of people. "Greg, damnit! I've been combing the place for you….what drink are you on now?"

Sam made a show of counting slowly on his fingers before shrugging. "Room for one more."

"No way, man, you gotta stop. If Sherri kicks you out again, you are _not_ sleeping on my couch. Sorry, everyone…this game is over!" Dean yelled over the din of the room.

The group that had been hanging around the pool table just stood there in amusement for a moment. A burly looking guy hanging out by the left corner pocket called out, "Greg, it's your turn. Go already."

Crowds never dispersed the first time you asked, so this hadn't been unexpected to Dean.

"Seriously, guys, fuck off! His girlfriend will kill him if I don't get him home." Dean flicked a couple of twenties onto the green felt of the table. "Here. Next drinks are on him."

Dean pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders, pulling his giant lummox of a brother with him as they staggered toward the exit away from their audience. Dean was kicking himself for using the angry girlfriend story when the last thing Sam needed was to be reminded that his girlfriend would never have the chance to get angry at him again, figuring that must be the reason for Sam's dark furtive glances. _Way to kick a brother when he's down. _

"We should've left fifteen minutes ago, Dean." Sam muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "We're cutting it way too close, man, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Let's just finish this charade. Give 'em their money's worth." Dean, relieved that his brother's expression had nothing to do with being reminded of grief, placed his foot in front of Sam's next step as they walked so he'd stumble a little, stifling a laugh. "Look out, drunky."

They made their way to the Impala, Dean still playing at hoisting Sam along. Better to stick with a story and be free to hustle there again than be confronted by an angry mob bearing pool cues and get banned from a bar.

Finally back to the car, Sam held out his hand.

"What, lush?" asked Dean, unlocking the driver's side.

"Keys, man. We're not fishtailing across lanes of traffic again."

"So you want me – the guy who may or may not get a headbanger tonight, to hand the keys to you, the geek who spent the last few hours mainlining crappy microbrews. No way, Sam."

"Dean –"

"Dude, the sooner you stop arguing and get in the car, the sooner we'll be back at the motel."

Sam narrowed his eyes shrewdly for a moment before strolling over to the passenger side of the Chevy, waiting for Dean to lean over and unlock it so he could take his perch to watch his older brother for the tiniest flicker of pain throughout the seven minute jaunt back to where they were staying.

For a moment, Dean really had allowed himself to believe that the previous day had been a fluke. That hope came crashing down as they pulled into the motel parking lot, and some sonofabitch began weaving rusty piano wire into his temporal lobe, like pulsating earthworms in the spring soil. He blew out a shaky, exasperated sigh as he fumbled to turn off the ignition.

"Y'know, Sam, I was really hoping…" Dean didn't finish expressing what his hope was, the swiftly increasing pain making it nearly laughable that he had hoped it wouldn't come.

"Your meds are in your pocket?" Sam's face was set in a grim line.

"What? Yeah." Dean replied, but remained unmoving after he set his head against the coolness of wheel, his fingers gripping it tightly.

Sam waited for a few moments as his older brother sat hunched over, hearing his breath coming quicker. "Dean…?"

Dean kept his eyes closed, trying to keep his composure. "Just…gimme a minute, okay?"

Sam nodded slightly and exited in the car, closing it as softly as he was able, which wasn't that softly considering the weight of the door. Dean flicked his eyes up to see the tall silhouette of his brother disappear into the motel room. "This is pissing you off, already, huh – Sammy?" Dean muttered to himself. He figured he couldn't blame Sam, just like he couldn't blame his dad. Dad had a job to do, and the ultimate mission behind the job – to avenge his wife's death. Sam had the same job, the same mission, and even fresher grief to contend with. There just wasn't time for this.

Dean's jaw set resolutely as he pushed himself back against the seat, even the slight movement causing a flare of agony that made his entire being jackknife and his vocal chords respond with a guttural voicing of the pain. He was deeply grateful that Sam wasn't there to hear it and deeply determined to make his next move. If he could just convince Sam to get back in the car, they could start toward somewhere – a hunt, their dad. Maybe Sam would have to drive, but at least they'd still be making progress toward something. Dean had convinced Sam to do far less appealing things before.

How exactly Dean managed to get himself from the Impala to the motel door, he really had no idea. It happened, sure enough. The lights weren't on, but the room was aglow in a soft flickering light that didn't come from any of the fixtures. Sam looked up from where he was lighting one of the several candles he had strewn about the room.

"Candles, ….my, you _are_ a romantic." Dean leaned himself against the door jamb.

"Hey, I was gonna come get you in a sec. Figured this kind of light might be easier on you."

Sam crossed the room in two long strides, pulling on the curtain cords to close the gap in the heavy drapes. What must have been another half a stride and Sam was by his older brother's side, gripping his arm firmly. It took Dean a few moments to realize he was being mostly held up, and he knew he was telling Sam he was sorry about all this, he felt his mouth form the words, but it was muffled over the repeated pulse of the throbbing.

Sam pursed his lips at his brother's apology. "Don't be stupid." Sam shifted his weight so he had a better hold on Dean, hooking one of his fingers around the belt loops of his jeans. "You take your meds out there?"

"No. Sam…_Jesus! Motherfucker!" _Dean was sure his head must have broken open, cracked like an egg. He could swear he felt fissures in his skull spiraling outward from his eye, like a windshield shattering. In an automatic move his hand smacked upward to grab his head, not even realizing he was clawing at his scalp with his fingernails.

"Fuck this." Sam muttered, reaching into Dean's pockets until he came up with the injector and medication cartridge. Sam stared down at the contraptions he held in one hand as he held up his brother with the other. "Huh, I need both hands….," Sam tried to shift Dean so that that door jamb would take most of the weight, but immediately saw that his brother's legs weren't going to hold up. "Er, this isn't gonna…..oh, wait."

Sam straddled his legs apart, stretched one long limb out, hooked his foot around one of the dinette chairs and pulled it forward for Dean to sit on, grinning like he just figured out how to end world hunger. Had Dean not been completely enveloped in pain, he would've gotten a huge kick out of the look on his brother's face. It was the same kind of expression Sam used to wear whenever he did something of merit. Nowadays it was reserved for executing spirits or developing the smoothest cover story, but in the way old days it was for things as simple as finishing a Happy Meal all by himself. Sam's moment of glee didn't last long, the situation sobering him as he gently guided Dean into the chair.

Dean wondered if Sam could feel the pain, the body throb, which is what their dad had called it when it got to this point, when Dean physically began rocking back and forth with the cadence of the _stab-stab-stab_. With both hands free, it didn't take Sam long to figure out the injector. He began the task of pulling one of Dean's arms – first out of his leather jacket, then out of the denim button-down he had over that. It was a bit of a trick to get Dean out of the layers –what with the rocking.

"Dean…can you try and stay still? I know it hurts, man, but I need to get at your arm."

Dean didn't respond. He thought if he allowed his vocal chords any leeway at all, he'd start screaming or sobbing, maybe both. And he tried to stop the rocking, but it was on automatic, like a tremor. Sam was somewhat used to Dean walling off when he was in distress. This was beyond anything he'd seen, though, and it was scaring the crap out of him – the very aura of inescapable pain that was pulsating off of his brother, pain that could not be hidden or shrugged off or patched up. He wanted to be able to end the agony for Dean, but he didn't want to manhandle him unless he had to, especially after reading how Clusters can cause any nerves to be hypersensitive. The question lingered, if he touched Dean, would it hurt him and make it worse? Sam felt completely out of his element. He had memory upon memory of Dean being infinitely patient with him when he was sick as a child. Even right up until Sam left for college, Dean always made sure he was well taken care of. He fondly remembered the time that Dean had called to check in with him while Dean and Dad were away on a hunt, and Dean – hearing a rasping cough and the fatigue in Sam's voice, but knowing he couldn't back out of the hunt, had contacted the mother of the girl he had a crush on. "She was a nurse, Sam!" Dean had shrugged when he had come back, "Nurses can't have hot daughters?" But they both knew that Dean was trying to make Sam feel better in more than one way. Sam honestly wasn't sure he had _ever_ been that patient or considerate to Dean.

Eventually, Sam caught the rhythm of his older brother's ebb and flow and managed to go with it, pulling on the sleeves only when Dean would be pulling back in the opposite direction. A couple good tugs and the arm was free. "Got it!" Sam wasted no time in plunging the medication into his brother's muscle, staying crouched down in front of him, his other hand kneading Dean's neck gently, trying not to freak out at the rapid pulse bounding beneath his fingers. He opted to touch Dean, because to sit there and just watch….it was impossible.

Sam began speaking in low, reassuring tones. "Once I figured out which way you were rocking, it was easier. Sort of like Double Dutch." Okay, that last part was definitely for Dean's benefit – offering himself up to be dubbed _permanently_ female for knowing anything more about a jump rope besides it being a cardio tool or an on-the-fly weapon. Perfect opportunity, and Dean couldn't even manage to quirk an eyebrow in disbelief.

They stayed in that position for a good fifteen minutes, the moonlight shining a few inches into the room, a cold wind blustering inside through the still open door. Sam searched Dean's form for any sign of relief, but there was no droop in the hunched shoulders, no ease in the shallow breaths.

"It should be working by now, shouldn't it? Injections are supposed to be fast." Sam's frown deepened.

Dean nodded his head nearly imperceptibly. If he hadn't been under full-on Sammy Scrutiny, perhaps it would have been missed.

"Yes, you feel it working or yes it should be?"

"'shd'be." Dean uttered his words around clenched teeth, practically perfect ventriloquism.

"He speaks." Sam said lightly. "So…it needs more time or another dose?"

Dean leaned fully forward over his knees, gripping dark blonde hair tightly with his fingers. His voice began to break. "If it hasn't started…it isn't gonna."

"It just chooses not to work? That's ridiculous!"

"So write a letter." Dean said wearily, not in the mood to argue.

"I'm not saying _you're_ ridiculous, man. Just…you have people depending on this stuff. Seems dumb to give folks a med that is going to crap out whenever it feels like it."

"You're telling me." Dean choked out. He was immensely glad that his face had the cover of the autonomic tears, it was getting to the point he couldn't hold back the real ones anymore. It was obvious this was not going to be one of the shorter headbangers, and he didn't know if he could deal with that and keep his shit _at all_ together for his brother.

"Hey, hey…._Dean, hey_!" Dean felt Sam's hands gently, but firmly remove his own hands from his head. He wanted to tell him, 'Sammy_, don't you know those hands are the only things keeping my brains in?'_

"You're nearly drawing blood, dude. Just gonna make it worse."

Beneath the tears, Sam could see the withering glare Dean gave him.

"Okay, it can't make it worse, but it won't help. Makes me really glad dad stayed on our ass about keeping short nails, though." Sam paused, realizing he just admitted his dad was right about something and not really liking it. He shook his head as if it would help him refocus on the situation in front of him. "Jesus, man. Where's the Dilaudid – same pocket?"

Dean didn't respond, just let Sam go digging through this pockets until he came up with the bottle. He felt Sam's presence leave and felt overwhelming relief – or that's what he thought he felt, not being able to hide the whimper that was caught in his throat. He didn't want to fall apart in front of his kid brother, and he knew he was going to. He felt four years old again, wanting his mommy, daddy, anyone to make it okay. He hands found their way up to his scalp again.

_No, no, no you do not think about mom right now, you do NOT._

Too late. Just that one shred of emotion tipped the scales he was trying so hard to balance, and a deep sob, achingly bone-deep escaped from his throat. His soul had to find a way to express the physical torment he was enduring. Dean hated that tears were considered a viable outlet, not just because he felt like a gigantic wimp, but because crying like that did not help the pain. Not one fucking iota.

"Hey, man…I'm right here, right here, Dean." There Sam was, looming again, plastic cup of water in hand. Sam reached out, unsure how to comfort this level of torture. Tell him to set a bone, stitch a wound – he could do that, he remembered how. This was…this was clinging onto a life raft and praying for the storm to end. He laid a hand on his brother's trembling back.

"De-…" Sam's own voice became husky and he quickly clammed up. This was not right – to see Dean like this, not right on the most fundamental and basic level he'd ever known, the one dependable thing in his life crumbling right before his eyes.

Hearing Sam in distress got through to Dean somehow, and both brothers took deep breaths to steady themselves. Sam pulled Dean's hands away from his head again, and Dean felt Sam press two pills in his sweaty palm. He looked up to find the frantic face of his baby brother, holding a glass of water out like proffered hope in a cheap plastic vessel.

There was something nagging at Dean, something telling him not to take the pills, and it was more than the usual stoicism, more than the usual conservation of necessities too. Even though it was really the last thing he wanted to do, he found himself pulling away from Sam, trying to put the meds back into his brother's hand.

"Dude, no, this isn't even an option. You take them, _now_!" The resemblance of Sam's voice to their father's was uncanny. He could practically hear the follow-up, 'That's an order, son.' Dean wasn't all that surprised that he immediately obeyed, the water feeling so good as it chased down the medicine, like liquid calm.

"We should get you laying down." Sam said softly.

"I can't." Dean's voice quaked. It was all he could manage to say, not really able to go into the explanation of how he was past the point of being able to lay down. He needed to be able to move, to be able to pound things, to let his leg hammer up and down like it was doing now. Fortunately, Sam didn't try to argue.

"Okay, we'll wait until the meds kick in." Sam didn't prevent Dean's hands from find their way back up to clutch at his hair once more. He pulled up the other chair so he could sit with one hand on his brother's back, rubbing in the same rhythm Dean was rocking.

After another unbearable fifteen to twenty minutes, which might as well have been eternity, Sam was aware of Dean's breathing slowing down, the rocking easing too.

"Oh, thank god," he murmured. Dean agreed, and he felt his body sagging under the weight of relief and medication. He didn't fight as he felt his younger brother remove the other half of his jacket and shirt from him, didn't fight as he was hoisted up and laid down on the bed, didn't fight as he felt his boots being pulled off one by one. He curled himself into the fetal position, somewhere in between the torture of white-hot pain and the softness of the opiate clouds he was climbing onto.

Sam moved about the room in near silence, finally closing the open door, blowing out a couple of the candles. He settled himself against the headboard with Dean's back facing him, laying his hand on his brother's hip. He could have lain down on the other bed, but it seemed much too far away. He still heard the small whimper that caught on Dean's breath with every other exhalation. It took another half an hour before Dean's breathing eased out completely, the lines of pain completely gone, and he finally fell asleep.

It was over. How in the hell had Dean and his dad done this every single night for a month? All Sam had done was bear witness to two of these headaches (and fuck if that didn't seem like a weak word) and he found himself wrung out and exhausted. He wasn't sure when his eyes closed, when he fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam woke up later and immediately sensed something was amiss. As if an extension of his hand was missing, Sam realized he was no longer connected to his brother, an empty space left on the bed next to him. His eyes flicked over to the other bed, in case Dean had moved, but that bed was still perfectly made. Sam shot upright, now wide awake and found himself bolting for the bathroom. He didn't bother knocking, just swung open the door to find Dean curled in on himself near the toilet, banging his head somewhat lightly against the tile wall. The room smelled of vomit, and the candlelight gave Dean a ghoulish appearance. Even Dean's shadows looked miserable.

Sam grabbed a couple of towels from the rack on the wall and tossed them down on the puddle of sick Dean had left on the floor, then sat himself on the edge of the bathtub.

"I thought it went away." Sam said as quietly as he could, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"It did. New one." Dean grunted.

Sam wanted to ask, 'why didn't you wake me up?' but the answer was fairly obvious. That was just Dean for you.

"I thought they didn't make you nauseous."

Dean didn't answer, he didn't need to. College Boy already had it figured out. "The pain…it got too bad, didn't it? Shit, man…"

Sam squinted his eyes to see the time on the wall clock. "Three AM. I think you can take s'more pain meds. Hold on, I'll be right back."

Dean's hand shot out and grabbed Sam's wrist before he had the chance to stand up fully. "I can't,"

"Dean, look at yourself….yes, you can. You need to."

Dean had to dig in deep to be able to have an actual conversation, unaware how tightly he was still clutching onto Sam's wrist. "There aren't enough. Not until I get a refill. Need to make 'em last."

Sam gazed at his brother in disbelief as sobering reality caught up with him. How many were still in bottle? Four, five? Heavy duty narcotics weren't just handed out easily or called in over the phone.

"Sam…I still feel 'em from before. Not s'bad." Dean tried comforting his younger brother the best he could.

"Bullshit or you wouldn't be throwing up. Did you try another injection?"

"Running low on that too, dude." Dean wasn't about to say that he didn't have a prayer of getting himself across the motel room to get it on his own.

"That one will be easier to refill. We'll call it in this morning." Sam knelt down next to Dean, not caring as he felt the dampness seep through the towels and into the jeans he was still wearing. He gently pried Dean's hands off of his wrist. "We'll figure it out. Let's just worry about now, okay?" Sam gave Dean's shoulder an affectionate squeeze before taking off like a slingshot out of the bathroom and back again. He was busying himself loading the injector as he took his final steps across the threshold onto the tile floor. When he looked up he saw Dean coiled like a tight spring, swallowing convulsively as he used one hand to push himself off the wall. Knowing he only had a moment to spare, Sam put the injector on the sink before helping his brother lean over the toilet in time. Over and over, the horrible sounds of retching echoed against the walls as bile spewed forth from Dean's lips. Layered over the strained choking were intense moans of pain. Dean used the arm that wasn't wrapped around his brother to brace his palm against his right temple.

"My eye….fuck!!" His stomach empty, Dean gasped in between rounds of painful dry heaves. "Please, Sam, _please_."

Dean usually had only two settings in regard to illness or injury. If he was bitching about it, you knew it was more of a nuisance than anything else. There was that, and then there was the 'off' setting – where Dean wouldn't make a noise, wouldn't tell anyone that there was anything wrong. Sam was used to that being the serious mode to look out for. This uninhibited display, which could not be helped – it was new to Sam and frightening . And there was so much in that please. _Please, make it stop. Please, kill me. Please, find dad, he'll know what to do._

Sam stretched one hand up onto the counter, feeling along until his fingers found the injector, careful that his other arm didn't lose its grip on his brother's shuddering form. Holding Dean up placed Sam at the wrong angle to be able to inject him.

"I need to sit you back for a second. Do you think it is all dry heaves for a bit?"

Sam saw Dean's head bob up and down in answer and moved quickly to brace his brother back against the wall. He viciously stabbed the injector into Dean's bicep, holding it there to make sure all the medication found its way in. Dean continued to gag painfully, the moan on the edge of becoming a scream, his voice grinding gutturally, and he began banging his head against the wall behind him.

And then, what seemed mere moments later, it stopped. The entire cacophony of Dean's pain came to a halt.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly.

And holy-fucking-shit, was that trembling quirk of the lips a smile?!

"S'gone. It worked."

Sam's face crumpled. He didn't even realize he was close to crying until he felt Dean's hand snake up around his neck.

"S'okay, Sammy. You did good." Dean croaked out hoarsely.

Sam snorted, bringing a hand up to his eyes and wiping the tears away before they had a chance to fall. Unbelievable. Dean was actually genuinely concerned with how _he _was handling this. They sat there a few minutes, catching their breath. Sam unfolded himself and stood up, extending a hand to Dean. "You alright to come to bed? We can still get a decent night before checkout."

Dean let himself be helped up, briefly clutching more firmly on Sam's forearm as a wave of dizziness hit him.

"It's not another one, is it?" Sam's brow furrow in worry, his grasp locking on Dean.

"No, is just the meds. They do this." Dean met the panic in Sam's eyes with a full, steady gaze. "I'm good, seriously."

Dean didn't look good, but he sure as hell looked better. Sam nodded. "Okay."

Sam made sure Dean had a good grip on the sink so he could rinse his mouth out and got busy cleaning up the mess on the floor. It was ridiculous, Dean thought, Sam having to do that for him. It was always the reverse, Dean taking care of Sam, and _should_ always be the reverse. And Sam was mopping up with such a stupidly intense look on his face, like painting the Sistine Chapel.

Dean spat out a mouth full of toothpaste. "You don't have to do that."

"You'd leave your puke for housekeeping? Dude, that's gross."

"No, I meant I would get it." Dean turned back to the sink and continued brushing for minute. "Beshydes, w'aways eave bud 'n'orse. 'Ow oo get fushy?"

Sam sat on the edge of the tub and turned the taps, rinsing out the towels as best he could. "First of all, I'm not fussy. Secondly, leaving blood behind when we're trying to ditch town is not the same thing as just leaving it. And thirdly, why wouldn't I do this? How many times did you have to clean up my puke when we were growing up? And you never once complained."

Dean tossed Sam a pointed look over his shoulder, before leaning over to rinse and spit.

"Okay, so maybe you groused a coupla times. We were _kids_. But if it makes you feel any better…I would like to lodge a formal complaint."

Dean immediately turned around, bracing his back against the sink, eyeing Sam seriously.

"Chew your food, Dean. I've found five whole beer nuts so far."

Dean's shoulders relaxed. "Oh, those? I was savin' 'em just for you, Sammy."

Sam screwed his face up in disgust. "No, thanks. I'll pass."

"We all set in here?"

"Yeah, I think so. We have extra towels in the closet for tomorrow."

The boys headed back into the main room, Sam walking behind Dean to make sure he didn't crash into a lamp. They managed to get out of their jeans this time before laying down, each in their own bed.

"Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"If that shit happens again and you don't wake me up, I will beat your ass into next week."

Dean yawned. Whether it was because he was truly exhausted or just emphasizing how little Sam's threat scared him, neither of them knew.

"Duly noted. 'Night, Sammy."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean woke up in the morning to hear his brother angrily talking to someone.

"Look, I already told you…the doctor hasn't seen him in a year, because the cycle stopped. It's restarted, we're in the middle of nowhere. We still have maybe a day or two's worth of meds left from last year. Yes, an appointment would be wonderful, thank you."

Sam looked over and saw Dean was awake. He rolled his eyes theatrically and Dean smirked.

" March?! You've got to be kidding me! No,…no,…no. Time _is_ a factor."

Dean clambered out of bed and held out his hand for the phone, wearing his best _May-I_ expression. Sam handed it over, muttering, "Good luck."

Dean walked into the bathroom with the phone. All Sam heard of the conversation was, "Hi, I'm Dean McGilliguddy, I'm speaking with? Hello, Sandra. That's such a pretty name. Sorry about my brother, he's wound a little tight." Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam as he closed the bathroom door.

A few moments later, Dean walked back into the room. "Appointment is Friday at 3pm."

Sam flailed his arms. "Twenty minutes I spent on the phone with that harpy and got nowhere. Five minutes later, you have an appointment for three days from now?"

"Aww, Sammy. You were just warming her up for me." Dean handed his brother back the phone with a delighted smile on his face. Apart from the smile, Sam noticed, Dean looked wrecked. Not sick, not in pain, just achingly tired.

"You okay?"

"Fine." Dean scratched the back of his head. "Coulda done with a couple more hours, but we'll have time to play catch up. We're only, what...half a day from Maryland?"

"About that, yeah."

"So, we shoot for the Virginia border today, which puts us for Nashville around lunchtime…." Dean trailed off, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye, obviously trying to manipulate the conversation.

Sam let out a long sigh. "Smooth. You want to go to Cheeseburger Charley's, don't you?"

"I am friggin' velvelty smooth, little brother." A crooked Carey Grant smile flitted across Dean's face. "And we _are_ passing through…I think I've earned a burger of highest quality."

Yeah, Dean had more than earned it. "Sure, yeah, we can go."

The smile Dean bestowed on Sam would have made Sandra weak in the knees.

By day, they had a wonderful time. The interstate was smooth sailing, beautiful weather and no cops in sight. They hit Nashville in no time, which meant Sam had time to hunt and peck around some old bookstores, while Dean had some time to hunt and peck around some old music stores. Sam bought a book on protection herbs, but left desperately wanting a first edition Dickens.

"You can't even be a normal nerd, can you? You're an elitist nerd!" Dean had laughed.

Dean had bought a cassette from _The Edgar Winter Group_, and ending up lusting over a Sunburst Stratocaster that was hanging on the wall.

"Do you think if you got a guitar, you'd develop better taste in music? Because I'll buy it for you right now." Sam had teased.

On the way out of Nashville, after a cheeseburger that Dean kept on gushing over and didn't even finish, the reality of the situation sank in and the mood began to get a bit more tense.

"So…we have two days of medication and three days until your appointment. What do you want to do?" Sam was fidgeting in the passenger seat. He didn't want to bring it up, but he wanted to have a plan of attack.

"We can get the Imitrex called in at a pharmacy when we stop for the night."

"Okay, good, but Dean…that stuff works sporadically, at best."

"I know that." Dean purposefully kept his eyes on the road.

"So, I was thinking that the sooner we get to Annapolis the better. We can map out where the ERs are, so if I have to take you-"

"Sam, you are not carting my ass to the ER every night!" Dean interrupted, "It is just not happening! You know what kind of problems that can cause."

"It causes problems when we have to explain away crazy injuries. This is a legitimate illness and you have a neurologist in town there. We'll use the same name, the same info. I'm not talking about staying overnight, just a couple of hours so they give your ass some Demerol."

"Sam." Dean said, with warning in his voice.

"Dean," Sam echoed with nearly identical intonation. "You are literally dealing with the scientifically quantified worst pain imaginable and you want to do it _without_ pain meds? You want to prove how macho you are, man? There, you win!"

"You think I didn't go through this with dad?" Dean bit out. "Before I was diagnosed we were spending every friggin' night at the ER. If you cart me in there yourself, then we have to wait in line. By the time they get to me, the attack will probably be over. Meanwhile, I coulda been dealing with it in the dark and quiet somewhere. And if you call an ambulance, the cops might show up too. You want to explain all the weaponry?"

"It isn't like it'll be a call for a domestic disturbance or drug possession, Dean. They'll be no reason for them to be rooting around in the trunk unless we say, "Hey guys – can you grab the bag with his medical history, it is right on top of the machete.""

"We can't take that risk, Sam, not when we have to find dad." Dean's words were final. There was no way he was being talked out of it. "Besides, it isn't like I'm bleeding out or anything."

Sam crossed his arms. "We'll just have to find another way, then."

"If you can, then – by all means."

The next two nights went pretty much the same as last. And although Dean, being the one afflicted, still ended up in tears both nights (if you asked him, they were very manly tears), Sam had done his utmost to take on a role of a calm, somewhat detached care provider. The detachment was the only thing that had gotten him through those nights. Dean seemed to either be getting more comfortable with being in such great pain in front of his brother or wasn't coping as well, because he wasn't censoring himself as much. It was quite possible that he had no idea what he was saying at the time. Wishes for death had happened a couple of times, pleas to be knocked out happened near constantly and Sam had come close to abiding his wishes and punching his brother out. Part of that was the very altruistic notion that Dean wouldn't be aware of the pain if he was unconscious. The other part was the sheer frustration of limited pain management resources and Dean's refusal to take an emergency room into consideration. Knocking someone out by force was tricky business, though – hitting hard enough to lay someone out meant possible concussion no matter how you sliced it, and it wasn't guaranteed to keep Dean out long enough to make a good deal of difference. In the end, Sam settled for not interfering (as much) when Dean kept trying to knock _himself_ out.

Thursday dawned – they had no Dilaudid left. They pulled into Maryland in the early hours of the morning, Sam driving due to the hellish night Dean had previously. Now Dean had the shakes, and Sam had no idea what that was about. Dean had withdrawn completely into himself, basically only muttering that his head was fine and for Sam to stop staring at him. Sam got them set up in the first motel they saw on the outskirts of Annapolis, figuring Dean could do with a nice long shower and a nap. Meanwhile, Dean _had_ told him that he was welcome to find an alternate plan, which was tantamount to a challenge in Sam's book.

In a few short hours, Sam became a scholar on cluster headaches, learning everything he could. This had less to do with his awe-inspiring research abilities and more to do with the lack of information and treatment options. Preventative medication was all well and good for later this month , but preventative medication was all about trial and error and what may or may not work – and it could take a long time to properly test these meds and get them up to a right dose. Point was - it didn't cover the issue of what the hell was going to happen that night. In the end, he ended up doing what he'd done whenever he was a kid and going to Dean wasn't an option, he called Pastor Jim.

The phone call started out predictably awkward. Sam hadn't spoken to Jim Murphy since right after he left for Stanford. He always felt rather bad about it, but at the time he had felt the need to separate his new normal life from his old fucked up one. Always the epitome of understanding, Jim hadn't made a big deal about it. He had told Sam back then that he was confident they would meet again someday. He was, however, surprised to find out now that Sam was back hunting. So, there was a bit of catching up to do. Pastor Jim didn't offer any clichés or platitudes about Jessica's death, which was comforting in and of itself. Sam was still getting emails from his friends and Jessica's family telling him to "hang in there" and that it would "get better." Sam knew the truth of it. It would never get better; it would just get different enough that he'd accept his new reality without question. He'd get used to her absence, which almost seemed worse – like he was letting her go, bit by bit. It was why he was clutching hold of revenge so hard. If he centered his entire purpose around Jessica's death, then he felt like he was still holding onto her, still making sure she mattered to him. He wondered quite a lot if this was how his father felt about their mother.

"Samuel, hunting is a noble calling no matter what your reasons are, but I'll tell you what I told your father. Most hunters get into this business because they've suffered a loss. The ones who truly make it are those who have figured out they still have something left to lose. Don't lose what you already have in pursuit of this goal, son. Now, that brother of yours, he has his head on fairly straight in this regard."

Remembering why he was on the phone, Sam blurted out,"Dean is actually why I'm calling."

Suddenly full-fledged hunter and fierce friend, Pastor Jim hurried Sam along to the point. "If something was wrong, Sam, you should have said right away. Although, I appreciate the talking – to be sure."

"Were you in contact with dad last year when Dean got sick?"

"They've come back, haven't they, the headaches? Damn it."

"I'll take that as a yes." Sam couldn't help but be a bit irked that Pastor Jim had been filled in about Dean being sick, but he'd been kept in the dark this whole time. Sam was busy trying to stifle the ire that rose up within him at the possibility that his father was being deliberately spiteful by not letting him in on a family emergency, before he realized that the holy man was speaking.

"Sam, did I you lose you? How can I help?"

Sam explained the situation – that they had an appointment for Dean at the neurologist the next day, but tonight they were out of pain medication. "I guess I was hoping you had some contacts in the area that could help us out on that front. At this point, I'll take anything – tranquilizers for him, _anything_."

There was a long pause and Sam heard the clacking of keyboard keys in the background.

"Er, Pastor Jim?"

"Just a second. IMing some contacts."

Sam could not stifle the laugh that came out of him. "Ahem, sorry, just….struck me as funny." The last memory Sam had of Pastor Jim with a computer was the Apple IIGS that Sam used to play _Oregon Trail_ on, and this was only a few years back.

"To tell you the truth, it started as mostly for the church. A parishioner donated his old PC. We ran a congregation webpage and had a committee meeting on Google. It sort of spread out into other areas of my life. Can you be downtown in two hours? Three-story brick building on the corner of Franklin and Admiral."

Sam glanced over at his brother who was curled up in a fitful slumber . "Absolutely! Who are we meeting?"

"Elderly man by the name of Thomas Darwin. Don't let his age fool you, though, he's sharp…still a practicing doctor. I've filled him in on the situation and he's expecting you."

"You filled the elderly doctor in via Instant Messenger?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"No, don't be silly, Samuel. By email. I have to get going, I'm the chaplain for hospice patients today. The dying don't tend to wait when you're running late. You give your brother my regards, tell him to take better care of himself this time. And let me know how you make out, will you?"

"I will," Sam promised. "Just one more thing."

"Name it."

"Er, can I have your email address?"

After Sam said his goodbyes and hung up his phone, he walked over to Dean's bedside and took a deep breath.

"Hey." Sam nudged Dean's shoulder gently and got no response. Sam sat down on the bed and tried again.

"Dude, time to wake up." Dean groaned and rolled away from the sound of Sam's voice.

"Do _not_ make me break out the ice bucket, man."

"You do that and I will punch you in your giant head," said Dean, not moving a muscle, his voice muffled from the pillow.

"When has that _ever_ stopped me?" Sam asked.

This was true and Dean knew it. Sam had taken more than one shot to face from waking Dean up forcefully and had never seemed to learn his lesson. Dean rolled back over and propped himself up on his elbows so he could glare at his brother properly.

"What do we even have to get up for? I know you didn't find us a job yet, and checkout time is, gee, _tomorrow_…"

Sam ignored Dean's surliness. "I called Pastor Jim, he has a contact we're meeting in town in a couple of hours. A doctor."

"Sam…" Dean just sighed and shook his head. He wanted to give the kid a piece of his mind, but he remembered that he had told Sam to find any viable path, so long as it wasn't the hospital. He still wasn't happy that Sam's plan had involved Pastor Jim, though. "Okay, so that's in a couple of hours. See you then."

Dean went to lay back down and Sam pulled the pillow out from under him. "No!"

"Goddamn it, Sam! Why the hell not?!" Dean shouted.

"We need to get something to eat." Sam said, as if the answer was painfully obvious.

"So you go and tell me how it is." Dean said, making a grab for the pillow, which Sam put out of his reach. When everything in life needed to be on a sharp deadline, it turned out food became distinctly less enjoyable. You did not want to wake yourself up after an evening in hell just to snag breakfast.

Usually it was Dean stopping the car at some diner, whether Sam was hungry or not. At this point, Sam was starving. They hadn't a good sit-down meal since Nashville, mainly subsisting on mini-mart fare. Mini-mart fare that Dean had barely touched. The only times he'd ever known Dean to avoid food was when he was sick or sick with worry.

"The past couple of days you've barely touched anything. Is your stomach bothering you, something else?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Dude, you're wrecked. Don't try and pull that crap with me."

Dean rolled his eyes. Going through this with Sam was ten times worse than going through it with his dad. His dad wasn't nearly so observant about this kind of crap, for one. Secondly, the drill sergeant gave an order – you obeyed, and most times it was an order. Now that Dean had room to discuss things, he had license to abuse that room to his liking, or thought he did. He hadn't been used to that pleading gaze in Sam's eyes for a couple of years. He'd been hoping he'd become immune to it while Sam was at Stanford. Apparently not. "Whatever. Seriously, my stomach is fine. With everything that is going on, I just get wiped, y'know? Barely wanna think about anything, nevermind food."

Sam immediately put his hand on the well-worn industrial carpet of the motel room.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Checking to see if hell froze over." Sam said, tossing the pillow back to Dean. Well, more like _at_ Dean. "C'mon. I'll order for you, you won't have to think about it."

"Like you know what I'll like." Dean snorted.

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Dude, I'm the one that gave you the Four Food groups lecture when I was nine. I'm all too familiar with the crap you eat."

"I still say Frankenberry is a valid fruit choice." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor.

Sam snorted. "Well, maybe we can pick up a box for dinner."

Of all the stupid things to make Dean's eyes light up, it was the possibility of Frankenberry, picking out the tiny marshmallows first and letting the cereal turn the milk pink. That was something worth getting out of bed for.


	6. Chapter 6

The diffused light of a clouded midday sun beat down on the boys, but the air was frigid around them as they walked down the street. The only available place to park was a ways from where they were supposed to meet the doctor. Sam had tried to get Dean a big greasy breakfast, bacon, eggs, hash browns and stuffed French toast. Dean still had barely touched it, so Sam had gotten the leftovers boxed up, figuring that if this doc was as good as he hoped, Dean's appetite would come right back.

"So, what does this place look like?" Dean squinted against light which seemed to come from all sides of the grey-white sky.

"Brick, has three floors." Sam and Dean exchanged a look. So far, the majority of the buildings were brick.

"Well, it is on the corner of this street and Franklin– so it won't be hard to find." Sam said. It was a good thing they had that landmark, because otherwise he doubted they would be able to find it. Eventually they did come to the intersection, stopping outside yet another large brick house. They saw some curtains on the third floor sway for a moment, as if someone was looking out the window.

A moment later, the front door creaked and a squat elderly man with a grey Van Dyke goatee waddled out onto the sidewalk, a bright smile upon his cheerful countenance. "You Jim's boys?" He called, his voice sounding like a bellowing trumpet, smooth brass.

Sam glanced at Dean, who had his poker face up and running the moment the physician took two steps outside the door. Dean wasn't making a move to acknowledge the old man, so Sam nodded. "Yessir, that's us."

"C'mon, inside then," he beckoned with a wave of his stubby-fingered hand. The Winchester brothers followed him up a walkway littered with crunchy brown leaves, Sam lagging behind Dean to make sure he went in.

The house was eerie, not in a paranormal sense, though. People always talk about how a house will look smaller on the outside, how when you go in – it seems to gain a couple extra feet here or there. The doc's office was the opposite. Instead of the wide-open spaces you were expecting, narrow hallways greeted you. And some low-hanging doorways.

"Ah!" Sam cried in surprise, his head giving a solid thunk as it ran into wood.

Dean couldn't help but laugh, even as his face was twisting with concern and sympathy.

"Sorry about that," the short doctor muttered at Sam, "You're very tall, you know." It came out sounding almost like an accusation.

They followed the doctor single-file (as if there was another way) along corridors that wound their way to a staircase, then through the glass door to what was Dr. Darwin's office. Dean's jaw dropped as he entered. The room was flush with cheerful Disney décor.

The glare he gave Sam could have melted eyeballs.

"Just give me a moment to grab a pen, boys." The elderly man said before turning to Dean, "Jacket off, good sir. Down to just the t-shirt, you can leave the jeans. Shoes off too."

As soon as the old guy left the room, Dean started in. "A pediatrician, Sam?! What the hell?! If you wanted a lollipop that badly, you could've just said so. I'da bought you a whole friggin' bag!"

Sam leaned back, hands in his pockets. "Dean, do you really think Jim, of all people, would've sent us here if the guy couldn't help?"

"But, Sam –"

"No buts, man. Just, I dunno, picture a threesome with Ariel and Jasmine or something. "

Dean snorted and leaned over to start taking his boots off. He managed to be down to his t-shirt and jeans by the time the doctor came back in, pen and paper in hand.

"So, Jim tells me you have cluster headaches?" Sam backed away as Dr. Darwin shuffled up to Dean, otoscope in hand as he began peering into Dean's ears, nose and mouth. Of course, the doctor had posed this non-question to Dean when his mouth was hanging open, so Dean merely echoed his agreement from the back of his throat. Dean was rather surprised some random pediatrician had even heard of this type of headache.

The doctor clucked his tongue, a sympathetic look crossing his face. He pulled Dean's hands out in front of him and told him, "Don't let me push them down," and then went through the full neurological work up, which both boys were used to, what with the concussions and all.

After that he pulled up the stool and sat down so slowly you could practically hear his knees creaking.

"So, what can I do for you – exactly? Usually I patch up hunters after a hunt. Getting a look at a fairly healthy one is a new experience for me." The doctor smiled benignly and paused to clean his glasses.

Dean's eyes widened in surprise; this guy knowing about hunters made this so much easier. He visibly relaxed and began talking. "I had my first cycle last year, wasn't expecting it this go 'round. My appointment with the specialist I saw last time is tomorrow. I had some meds leftover from last year, but they are all used up now. Managed to refill the Imitrex, but…"

"You need something a bit more surefire." Dr. Darwin supplied helpfully.

"Quick-acting would be a plus, too." Sam interjected.

"Hrmmm. There is a medication which may fit the bill on both counts. Lemme contact my friend at the pharmacy and see what we can do. I just need to be sure they'll be no problems for _any_ of us, this stuff is pretty tightly regulated."

Dr. Darwin held up his thick sausage-like index finger as he left the room to make the call.

It was obvious that it was taking everything Sam had not to boast about his great idea of bringing Dean here. Dean had to admit, the doc seemed alright, legit, and knew his stuff. He just didn't want to go nuts celebrating anything until he had meds in his hand that he knew would work. Call it not counting your chickens, in case they decided to peck your eyeball out.

After a few moments of silence, Sam began biting his nails, glancing at Dean.

"So…?"

"So what?" Dean replied.

"Aside from Disney, what'd you think of him?" It was kind of adorable how nervous Sam seemed about getting a positive opinion from Dean.

Dean shrugged, but decided he'd throw the kid a bone. "He knows hunters, knows what type of headache it is, and seems to be able to find his way around a prescription pad. Don't see how he could be much better."

Sam stood there, grinning like an idiot. With the oceanic children's mural behind his brother, Dean couldn't help but remember all the times when Sam was a toddler, getting his vaccinations, and how it was his very important job to distract Sam, to soothe away the tears, to tell him how brave he was. "I have a very special mission for you, Dean-o," his father had said, and Dean had taken it very seriously. Still did.

Dean snapped back to the present when the doctor bustled back into the room with a big smile on his face.

"Here's the scoop. I can get you a week's worth now. If your specialist gives you something that doesn't help as well as this, come back and see me before you leave town. I can set you up. It is just going to take a few days so we don't leave too much of a paper trail. Sound good?"

Dean nodded and Sam nodded so emphatically you'd swear his head was going to fall off, floppy hair bouncing every which way.

"Now…what about other symptoms?" Dr. Darwin resumed his seat on the stool.

Dean looked at the doctor blankly. "Really..it is just the pain that's the problem."

"No nausea, no vomiting?"

Sam immediately chimed in with a firm, "Yes."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Only when the pain isn't take care of. It isn't a problem."

"Does it increase the pain?" Dr. Darwin asked, his expression curious rather than probing.

"Well, yeah. Anything does, though." Dean shrugged.

"Well, how about I get you something for it just so you have one fewer thing to spike the pain up?"

Dean didn't respond to the offer, quirking his mouth sourly to the side. He hated being treated like a sick person. So what if it felt like his brain went into the ring with Muhammad Ali nightly? That didn't mean anything.

"Look, I'll write it out for you." Dr. Darwin began scrawling the prescription. "Trust me, get it filled. Even if you don't use it for this, it is always a good thing to have in a first aid kit. Then next time you get food poisoning from a gas station sandwich gone wrong, maybe you won't be so miserable, eh?"

Dean held out his hand, figuring the doctor was all finished. Instead, the man held onto the script.

"How is it impacting you daily?"

"Daily?" Dean asked. "My days are fine. When I'm not in pain I'm friggin' fabulous."

"Dude!" Sam interjected. "You haven't been eating. You're exhausted. You've even stopped driving."

Dean's eyes shot daggers at his brother. It was one thing to nag him in private, but the kid needed to learn to pipe down in front of other people. Particularly people who talked to other hunters.

"So…a large impact then?" The doctor grinned, ignoring small family drama unfolding before him.

Dean brought his hand up to scrub his face and made a small noise of frustration before flashing a tight smile. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Look, friendly advice. Your profession relies on the body being in top physical condition." The elderly physician nodded his grey-haired head toward Sam. "Your partner relies on you being in top form. The people you save do as well. Exhaustion means your reflexes are slowed. Not eating enough means you're losing muscle mass, which means losing strength."

Dean immediately closed off, his jaw tensing, his eyes narrowing. The dude did _not_ just imply that he was slow and weak, or worse wouldn't have Sam's back.

"Don't take it so personally, son! These are simply medical facts. They apply to anyone who isn't smart enough to take care of themselves, and I'm sure you're a very bright young man." Dr. Darwin held out the prescription like an olive branch, knowing he made his point when Dean didn't rip it out his hands, but instead took a deep breath and gracefully accepted it. With a thank you, no less.

Dean swung himself off of the examining table, his boots making a solid *thunk* as they hit the linoleum.

"We'll see you, doc." Dean nodded.

"Yes, Dr. Darwin, thank you." Sam's sincerity nearly made Dean blush. With the amount of gratitude in his kid brother's voice, you'd think the doctor had just single-handedly performed brain surgery on him.

"You're quite welcome, boys. Here is the information for the pharmacy where my friend is. Cash only. This is the name you need to use."

Sam glanced at the card the doctor was handing him and made a noise that sounded like he had just swallowed a bug. "Peter Wentz?" he asked Dr. Darwin, not bothering to hide the incredulity in his voice, sounding like he might break up in a fit of laughter.

Dean eyed the card his brother was holding and quirked an eyebrow at him, not recognizing the name.

Dr. Darwin blushed. "My granddaughter, he's all she talks about."

"I don't get it." Dean said, looking back and forth from his brother to the old man.

"You don't want to know." Sam clapped Dean on the back. "But I'll tell you in the car anyway."  


* * *

* * *

* * *

However pissy Dean had initially gotten about the old guy prodding him about taking care of himself, at least part of the message sunk in. So after they swung the Impala to the pharmacy down the street, the waxy white bag containing the meds clutched protectively in Sam's hands even as he steered the car, Dean pointed out a sub shop.

"You feel like lunch?" Dean asked. It was as close as he was going to get to asking to stop for a meal.

Sam knew better than to make a big deal out of it. "Yeah, sure man," he said, and swung the car into the parking lot.

"I'm gonna grab a paper, get me an Italian?" Dean nodded his head over toward a booth that was strategically placed to watch an exit. Sam nodded and turned toward the counter. Dean saw the downplayed smile his brother was sporting, clearly trying not to display his happiness that apparently the doctor's words had meant something. It was still something he was getting used to with Sam, not the being cared about – because he knew his dad did, but the fervor behind the worrying. The hundred little things Sam tried to do every day to take care of his big brother. And Dean fought him all the way on it, but he had to half-admit to himself, it caused a warm feeling he hadn't had since maybe he was four. He felt….cherished, in a completely manly sense.

Dean shoved a few quarters in the metal newspaper vendor, as always stealing a second paper for Sam to look at, and made his way to the chosen booth.

Sam was already sitting there, shoving leafy greens into his mouth. Dean plopped himself into the seat opposite his brother.

"You and your salads." Dean grinned. "Now this – _this_ – is a sandwich." He picked up the crusty meat-heaped submarine sandwich and inhaled with relish.

"Mmm, heartburn on a roll. Think I'll stick to my salad, thanks." Sam stabbed a green pepper with his fork.

"Heartburn? How old are you again, Grampa?"

"Bite me."

"No thanks, Sammy. That might give me indigestion." Dean winked over his sandwich and took a huge bite, the kind of bite that made his brother screw up his face in disgust.

Making an effort to not comment on Dean's caveman table manners, Sam asked. "So, what's with the papers?"

"Thought we'd look for a job."

"Dean…"

"What?"

"Maybe we shouldn't…" Sam trailed off.

"Shouldn't what? Look for dad? Hunt that sonofabitch demon down?" Dean said pointedly. They both knew neither was an option, there was no stopping.

"Well, no," Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat and began idly picking at one of the corners of the newspaper in front of him. "But we don't have to take in every hunt that comes our way, we could concentrate just on looking for dad. Maybe give you some time to get on some preventative meds that might work."

Dean paused and put down his sandwich, taking moment to wipe the grease off with a napkin. He wanted to make sure his little brother understood where he was coming from on this, it was important.

"Sam…if you saw someone drowning, you'd dive in and help them, wouldn't you?"

"Of course. You know I would." Sam said slowly, not liking where he thought this was headed.

"So, how are we going to be looking for signs of dad, for signs of the supernatural…and not see people who are in need of our help. How can we just turn away, when we know that might mean someone ends up dead?"

To drive the point home, Dean gently added. "Someone's mom or dad. Someone's girlfriend. Someone's brother."

Sam sat back against the seat as if Dean had punched him, hurt showing in his eyes. "Low blow, man."

"Not meant to be. Just saying the truth."

Sam stayed silent, his gaze trained on the shiny formica of the table. God, Dean felt like he had just kicked a puppy.

"Look, I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry that I've fucked everything up. And I know this changes things, slows us down, but if dad and I can adjust and still keep working, well…you and me were always a better team. We can do this."

At that Sam finally looked up into his big brother's eyes, eyes which were clearly pleading for understanding. _I need this, Sammy. I need a job to do or I'm not gonna make it through the next month. And if something happens to dad because I let this thing slow me down, stop me…that just isn't an option._

Sam did the only thing he could do after being allowed to see that kind of vulnerability. He picked up the paper and started looking for clues.


	7. Chapter 7

There were a couple of possibilities to look into, strange stories that they could definitely see their father looking into. Sam stretched out on the motel bed, his laptop warming his legs uncomfortably as he tried to hack local police databases for the full scoop from the coroner. As it got later and later in the evening, Dean tried to distract himself by watching some horrible B-horror flick, resting up against the headboard with a beer in his hand, comfortable in his boxers. It ended up being about creatures that burrowed in a person's brain, a lame attempt at a Body Snatchers knock off. The creatures eventually made the victims bleed out the eyes and then their brains exploded. Just a little bit too close to home to even get a good laugh in at the painfully pink blood the crap FX team had used. Dean flicked it to _Three's Company_. Now they were talking…what Dean wouldn't give to get in the middle of those two women: a sultry, if slightly vapid blonde and a button-down librarian-type brunette who you knew just had to be wild between the sheets. John Ritter had it made. A bunch of episodes back-to-back had him chuckling, nearly able to ignore the clock as time surged forth.

Jack Tripper gloriously prat-fell onto Suzanne Somers lap when Sam began not being so subtle about reading the prescription packet and glancing over at Dean every few moments. Usually, Dean lived to make the kid this on-edge, this time he just felt guilty/nervous himself.

"Sam!"

"What? You okay?" Sam stood up, plastic cases in hand, ready to leap across the room if need be.

Dean raised his eyebrows over at Sam's worried expression. Dear God, he could probably lose his pocket change in the furrows of that giant geek head of his.

"I'm fine. Sit. Relax. Watch Suzanne bounce up and down excitedly with me." Dean's eyes flicked back over to the TV, where sure enough – that's what the blonde beauty was doing. It wasn't a surprise, though. She did it once an episode.

Sam sat back down heavily on his bed. "I can't watch this with you. It is like sharing porn."

"Ew. Don't think of it like that. It is two men appreciating the beauty and _vigor_ that women have to offer. Camaraderie."

A white-hot spike reared up behind Dean's retina; he turned his face away from Sam as the hammer began driving it in.

"How 'bout we keep our mutual appreciation of vigor to ourselves, man. And if you need some time to be, er, _vigorous_ – with Suzanne, you just let me know and I'll give you some alone time."

It was the fact that Dean didn't jump on the chance to leer or comment at Sam's implication of whacking it that tipped him off.

"Dean?" Sam stood up more slowly this time when his brother didn't answer and was keeping the right side of his face turned toward the wall. It didn't escape Sam's notice that tears had begun dribbling down that side of Dean's face, wetting the t-shirt he wore drop by drop. Sam snagged the Imitrex injector from its place on the bedside table. He'd had the forethought to load it when he'd first noticed the time was getting close.

Dean felt the bed sink as Sam sat down on his bed and he cautioned a glance in that direction.

"Can you manage?" his brother asked quietly, holding out the grey plastic injector.

"Ye-," Dean began, the air hitching around the word as a game of racquetball raged in his brain. And it pissed Dean off that he was even aware of racquetball as a sport, because as far as he was aware only yuppie douches were allowed to play.

He felt Sam gently press the plastic into his hand. It meant all sorts of symbolic things about trust, respect, and love that made Dean want to simultaneously tug his brother a little closer and roll his eyes. They were heading into RomCom territory, and that just didn't sit fine with him since he found out that it meant Romantic Comedy and not Romero Complications (being informed of this fact by Sam had bummed him out severely – because he'd have to find some other way to reference zombie infestations, and hell, he'd liked that one).

Dean closed his fingers around the medication and pressed it into his arm, popping the button and feeling the sting bite into his flesh. Sam sat there next to him – for once managing the line between complete absence and being a goddamn governess. Dean's head dangled heavily forward on his head as he felt each throb pull him forward. The laughtrack exploded from the TV sending a violent shudder throughout his body, shaking the mattress as he cringed from the sound.

"Shit! Sorry." Sam fumbled for the remote and clicked the TV off.

They sat in silence for a few more moments before Sam asked, "How long should we wait until we move on to the new stuff?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't that he didn't care, it was that he couldn't form an opinion when he felt like his head was being used as a ball for Brazilian soccer players trying for the World Cup. Although he didn't seem to have any trouble with obscure sports metaphors. At any rate, Sam seemed to understand.

"Fifteen minutes then. Same as last time, I think." His younger brother's voice was decisive and firm.

They continued sitting together on the bed, Sam edging as close to Dean as he possibly could without putting his hands on him. Dean trusted Sam to count off the minutes to possible relief, while Sam politely ignored the stifled grunts and whimpers that began to eke out of his brother's trembling frame with each spike that clawed its way up his cranial nerves. Dean bolted forward with one particularly harsh throb and nearly tossed himself forward off of the bed, except Sam had managed to catch him by the shoulders and snagged him backward forcefully enough to ward off the potential face-plant. Sam didn't remove his hand from Dean's shoulder, but instead gently thumbed at a knot the size of Nebraska and began quietly mumbling assurances.

"S'okay, dude. Just a few more minutes. A few more, I swear. " Sam paused for a moment, and Dean felt his brother's huge ham-like hands groping his back. A little unnerving to be sure, but Dean didn't have the wherewithal to shrug him off or snark his way out of Sam's grip.

"God, Dean…you're one big knot." Remembering how Dean had tried to provide him with the hook-up when he wasn't feeling well, he added. "Tell you what, tomorrow I'll find you a hot masseuse to fix you right up."

Dean couldn't help a snort of laughter at that, which caused a gross bubble of snot to form out of his right nostril. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. He was rather sure that he and Sam had different ideas on how a visit with a hot masseuse should end.

The mattress shifted as Sam got up and it took everything Dean had to not pull him back down next to him. God help him, but having Zorba the Geek close by was kind of comforting. He didn't know, maybe Sam being annoying was a good distraction from pain. Either way, he was getting used to it. Despite that, there was still that lingering fear that every time Sam walked away it was going to be for good.

He needn't have worried, because this time Sam was just going to the table where the other meds were, coming back with a glass of water to boot.

Dean looked up when he felt Sam crouched in front of him. He wanted to remind him not to do that. Ever since the kid had sprouted up an additional fifty feet, his knees couldn't handle that position without complaining. Baby brother would never learn.

Sam pulled out a rectangle wrapped something-or-other out of its plastic case, studying the package for a moment before grabbing his Swiss Army knife and using the scissor attachment to cut the package open. What he pulled out was a lollipop, a white strange-looking lollipop, but a lollipop to be sure. It reminded him of coconut Dum-Dums, which were frankly, the worst fucking flavor you could score on Halloween.

Dean just stared. Someone had to be fucking with him.

Sam caught Dean's look of panic. "Hey, man, this is the real-deal, I swear. I looked it up before. They flavored it with some kind of berry flavor or something, but I don't know if that is covering up some other nasty taste…so I have the water here. " Sam paused and took a breath.

"Dean, I need to know you're hearing me."

The older brother clenched his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to brush away the tears that fell in quick succession. Dean held a fist to his right eye. "M'listening. Fuck."

"Okay, so…you have to hold this in your mouth, on the side, and let it dissolve. Don't bite it, okay? It gets into your system through your cheek quicker than through your stomach. You got that?"

Dean didn't reply, so Sam tried again. "Dean, you got that?" There was obvious desperation in his voice, the sound of which ate at Dean's soul a little.

Dean took his hand away and gazed blearily at Sam. "Cheek. Don't chew. That it?"

"Yeah." Sam held the little white stick out to Dean and made sure he had a firm grip on it, because god knows what would be sticking to it if it fell on a motel floor.

Dean promptly stuck it obediently in his mouth, all the way to the side, the little stick protruding out of his lips like a thermometer. He fought the urge to bite down, because Sam knew him too well – he'd never gotten the hang of sucking on candy or cough drops, he would just mow his way through the bag. It dissolved fairly quickly, though, a sweet generic berry flavor on top of a slight aftertaste. Really, it tasted pretty damn good.

He started to feel the relief right away, the icepick through his skull easing off bit by bit. He reached out for Sam who was still crouched in front of him and began hauling him up bodily by the elbow to move him back onto the bed.

Sam gripped Dean's forearm back. "What, Dean….is it worse? Did you change your mind about the ER? You need to let me get my shoes."

"No, Worrywart. S'working." Dean said, tugging at Sam even more fervently. The medication made his limbs feel pleasantly heavy, which made him pleasantly annoyed. He'd be pretty useless in a fight right now. Granted, he'd be more useless with his head on fire.

"Then what is it?"

"You need to sit right, Sam. You abuse your knees like that and you aren't gonna be running right for a week."

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother, dumbfounded. "I guess it really is working, if we're back to the status quo." And it was, really – Dean back to worrying about Sam, all was right with the world. And how fucked up was that?

"Dunno what you mean by that, but wouldja move already, Sammy?"

Sam used the bed to prop himself back up slowly, his joints snapping and creaking as he made his ascent toward the ceiling. He settled himself so he was facing Dean, one leg hanging off of the bed. He reached out with two fingers and placed them on his brother's neck.

"Geez, Florence, y'gotta be so hands on?" Dean chuckled slightly.

"Your pulse is getting back down to normal. How'dya feel, Stoner?" Sam quirked a grin, still assessing the elder Winchester.

"Better all the time." Dean's eyelids were began to droop, tears still clinging wetly to his eyelashes.

"I'm serious, man. 1-10 scale…you know the drill."

"1-10 pain scale is not fair, Sammy."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, for us….the way we get tossed around, pain is pretty normal. So what would a dislocated shoulder be, a cracked rib, a sucking chest wound?" Dean was starting to prattle like a gossiping teenager, a sure sign the meds where hitting him. He used to frustrate the hell out of their Dad when he was on morphine, wanting to re-hash every hunt they'd ever been on, every state highway they'd ever travelled, every state animal Sam had been able to find when they were in the state at the time. _Roadrunners really exist, Sammy, I promise!_

Sam rolled his eyes. "It is a subjective scale, Dean, it has to be, because pain is _subjective_. I just want to know where you're at, so if we have to change the dosage we know what to tell the doctor. Help me out here. If ten was where you were at a few minutes ago…what would it be now?"

"Dunno, a seven? I can totally handle a seven, dude. I handle sevens all the time."

"Kind of a sad comment on our lives, man."

"Only if you let it be, Sam." Dean looked at his younger brother seriously, fighting the doped up feeling. It was an old argument, one that Dean didn't want to get into right now, especially if it meant he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut.

There was a gentle swaying sensation and it took a moment for Dean to realize that it was Sam, pushing him back onto the bed.

"What are you doing, Mr. McFeely?"

"Laying you down. If you hadn't noticed you were about to eat carpet." Sam purposefully ignored the leer that crossed Dean's face and plowed onward."You keep nodding off." Sam's overly large hands fumbled with Dean's heavy limbs. Dean thought it was kinda funny, that he was being no help at all. It reminded him of when they were training for the fireman's carry, and Sam finally had graduated beyond hefting a duffel bag only to be rewarded with a pretend-unconscious big brother draped across his shoulders. Ah, the good ol' days. Wait, Sam was still talking?

"… dude, Mr. McFeely?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at his younger brother, now that it didn't hurt so terribly much to do so. "You would rather be Lady Elaine? You're certainly a big enough bitch."

"Bite me. Even in the Land of Make Believe, you are still an incredible asshole."

Dean fought to open his eyes to get a good read on his brother's face. Sam looked more relaxed than he had in days, which worked out because Dean was certainly there with him. Scratchy motel blankets were suddenly cocooning the elder hunter's body, and Dean wondered if he'd metamorphose into something else. 'Cause he'd be able to get the jump on a whole bunch of evil bitches if he had wings. He imagined himself aiming his favorite sawed-off as he darted across the sky gracefully, chasing down beasties in the form of Led Zeppelin's Icarus – but with more clothes.

He heard Sam's far off voice say, "Don't fight it, dude, just go to sleep."

Dean nestled down into the comfort of the blankets. "Don'worry, Sammy. We'll get you a jet pack or somethin'."


	8. Chapter 8

For the first night in nearly a week, both brothers slept well. Dean woke up in the morning, hungry as hell and rested. He looked over and saw Sam was still asleep, his stomach pressed into the mattress, holey socks dangling off of the end of the bed, one of the few possessions Sam had left after the fire. Poor kid had been carrying his ass for almost a week now, least Dean could do was get them coffee. Not that it was completely selfless, Dean mused as he tugged on the same jeans and layers from yesterday, because damned if he could wait to get some blueberry pancakes, or cholesterol-laden eggs, or a pile of bacon into his gullet – right-the-fuck-now.

As he began tying up his boot laces, he noticed Sam had one eye open.

"I'm getting breakfast, Sam. Food, coffee, _right now_. You can come with me – but no stretching for ten minutes, no shower. We gotta go."

Sam yawned. "Shuddup 'n' check the fridge."

"We have a fridge?"

Sam pointed blearily across the room, toward the closet. Dean finished tying his laces and walked over to the closet, where – sure enough, there was a mini-fridge tucked inside. Tucked inside the fridge were a tall pink box and a half-gallon of milk.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam, who still had one eye pressed into the pillow, could hear the gleeful smile that was on his brother's face.

"Not that I'm complaining, because I'm _so_ not….but why did you put a box of Frankenberry in the fridge?"

Dean heard his brother huff out an amused laugh.

"And I quote, _'We have a fridge_?'" Sam said knowingly."If I didn't hide it – it wouldn't be a surprise and it would be all gone. So, surprise."

Dean sort of half-hugged the box to his chest, hooking his fingers around the handle of the milk, feeling the cold condensation drip down his hand.

"Bowls? And how did you even find this, anyway? Isn't it only supposed to come out around Halloween?"

"Been out year round for awhile now. Bowls are in the duffel with the camping gear, I think."

"Right." Dean stomped around the room – his body quivering in anticipation of the sugar rush soon to be had. He grabbed one of the sturdy plastic bowls, terrible 70s plastic guaranteed never to biodegrade – also guaranteed to never match a kitchen unless it is garish orange or dull olive. "You want some?"

By this time, Sam was sitting on his bed, both feet planted firmly on the floor, a stupid smile plastered on his face at the sight of his happy big brother. This morning, this moment, it confirmed everything that Dean had been saying all along – that they could do this, they could find dad. Adjustments were needed, sure, but since when were the Winchesters bad at adapting to the needs of a hunt?

Dean held a spoon out to his toward his gawky sibling, his face expectant – content. "C'mon, Sammy, milk's not gonna pour itself."

Sam stumbled over to the small dinette table, carting his laptop with him. True to form, Dean had already laid out his bowl, poured the milk. Sam snagged the spoon from him and plopped his long frame down in a chair.

"Wass the Geek-tron 3000 for?"Dean began talking around a mouthful of pink milk and cereal. He'd started mowing down so fast, Sam didn't even know when he'd had time to get the spoon in his mouth.

"I think I found a hunt."

Dean eyes widened in disbelief, not the doubt that Sam could find a hunt – but that he was willing to. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, mostly sounds like a vengeful spirit, but there were some animal mutilations the week before. Coyotes, mostly."

"Sounds good. Might even be something dad would've looked into. Where?"

"Fort Sumner, New Mexico. I figure after your appointment, we'll have a little bit of time to contact Dr. Darwin – stock up the miracle shit of the century – and then pick up I-81. You in?"

"'Course, Sammy, who else would be driving?"

"I'll remember that the next time I buy you cereal. I foresee a lot of bran in your future." Sam's mouth quirked, slightly annoyed at the implication that _now_ Dean didn't trust him behind the wheel.

"I foresee that bowl on top of your head in a second."

_Yeah, it was going to be a long haul._

_Good._

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